"Beer, mademoiselle? Or red wine?" asked the Russian, suddenly turning
to her; and the commandant, released from his conversation, called out
gaily: "The mees will say 'water'--but one must insist. Take the wine,
mees, it is better for you." The idea of water had never crossed Fanny's
mind, but having decided on beer she changed it politely to red wine,
which she guessed to be no other than the everlasting _pinard_.

"I know them..." continued the commandant, smiling at the general. "I
know the English! My home is at Biarritz and there one meets so many."

And this old man thus addressed, a great star blazing on his breast, and
tears of age trembling in his blue eyes, lifted his hand to attract her
attention, and said to Fanny in gentle English: "Verdun honours a
charming guest, mademoiselle."

_"Verdun ... honours...."_ His words lingered in her ear. She a guest,
_she_ honoured ... _here_!

Up till now the novelty of her situation had engrossed her, the little
soldiers watching in the tunnels, the commandant so eager to air his
stumbling English, these had amused her.

And when she had perceived herself rare, unique, she had forgotten why
she was thus rare, and what strange, romantic life she meddled in.

Here in this womanless region, in this fortress, in this room, night
after night, month after month, the commandant and his officers had sat
at table; in this room, which, unlike the tomb, had held only the
living, while the dead and the threatened-with-death inhabited the